Page 490 of Devil’s Disciples

“Do you have one?” I asked.

He raised his arms in the air and did a slow-motion pirouette. “No, Señor.”

“What about Primo?”

He shook his head. “No, Señor.”

“El Alacrán?” I asked.

He shrugged. “He carries a pistola everywhere he goes.”

I narrowed my gaze. “Puts him at a distinct advantage, doesn’t it?”

“It geeves him comfort.”

“Mine gives me peace of mind,” I argued.

He gestured toward the portion of the home Goose was monitoring from the edge of the cliff. “I can’t let jew go in there with a pistola, Meester Wood.”

Having a one-sided pissing match about my pistol wasn’t a good way to start the night. So far, Manos’ demeanor was such that I was comfortable. I hoped Alacrán’s was similar.

I looked at Crip. “Well?”

“Up to you, Boss.”

With reluctance, I pulled my pistol from the waist of my pants and handed it to him. “Put it in the saddlebag. Left side. Zippered pouch.”

Upon seeing the pistol, Manos whistled through his teeth. “La hostia!”

He said, the host. It was Spanish slang for Holy Shit!

I preferred he have no knowledge that I spoke Spanish fluently. Knowing what they were saying without him realizing I understood them could prove useful.

“What?” I asked, acting surprised by his tone.

“That’s a beeg fahking pistola, Meester Wood.”

“Big pistols get big results.”

“I need one like that,” he said, giving the pistol an admiring look.

“That one’s registered to me,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you one like it.”

While Crip carried the guns to the motorcycles, I stepped beside Manos, into the opening that led to the back of the home. On the other side of the kitchen, in a room that overlooked the ocean, El Alacrán sat cross-legged with a drink in his hand, gazing blankly at darkness beyond the glass wall.

He was dressed in dark jeans, snakeskin boots, and a very busy powder-blue pearl snap western style shirt. Combined with the musky odor of his cologne, the paisley design of his shirt made my head swim.

Tall and lean, he was a handsome man of roughly forty years old. His hair was cut short on the sides, and swept back on the top, held in place with a slathering of gel.

He looked like a poorly dressed business professional, not a drug dealer or psychopath.

I could see how Carma would find him attractive. Knowing he once claimed her as a lover made my skin crawl with anger.

“Do jew mind?” Manos asked, bringing me out of the daze I was in.

I shot him a glare. “Do I mind what?”

He gestured toward my waist. “I need to check for pistolas.”